


A Study in Loss

by dcfg21



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, M/M, Masturbation, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-09
Updated: 2012-04-09
Packaged: 2017-11-03 08:34:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/379411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dcfg21/pseuds/dcfg21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach. How does the consulting detective cope when the tables are turned? Character death. Lots of angst and longing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Study in Loss

The fire raged, bathing the street in heat and ash. Sirens wailed in a deafening cacophony of flashing blue light and sound. Sherlock watched as the primary school burned from the inside out, deadly orange tendrils swallowing the building, choking black smoke billowing out in evil clouds. The blinding barrier was thick and superheated and he wound his scarf around his mouth and nose in an effort to filter the acrid air.

"Leave it to terrorists to attack children," John said from his side. "Bastards," he hissed, shaking a fist at the fire.

"Mycroft will handle this," Sherlock replied, pulling his best friend back.

The squawking of police radios caught his attention, and then he noticed DI Lestrade running toward them, shouting frantically over the din.

"Children, John! There are still children in the building!"

John immediately pulled away from Sherlock and began to sprint in the direction of the blaze.

Sherlock's head whipped around, mouth open in protest as he pulled the scarf down. "John, no!" he cried. "You can't go in there!" He reached out in vain, clutching at John's black jacket, the fabric slipping through his fingers.

"Sherlock, let go! Children, for God's sake!" John shrugged off the jacket and started to run, Sherlock on his heels.

"No, John! Let them-" he was cut off by a rough shove from the doctor.

"Stay here, Sherlock!"

"John! John!" he cried, but John kept running. "John!"

The wail was lost among the crackling of fire and horrible sounds of crumbling infrastructure, and still John ran, headed straight into the mouth of hell.

Sherlock's brain went into overdrive, calculating the temperature of the blaze, wind speed, direction, taking into account the sounds of falling brick and concrete as he pieced together the situation. Information ticked by with buzzes, clicks, and whirs, and then the probabilities of the outcome turned around to laugh in his face. Terror, like nothing he had ever felt before, closed an icy hand over his heart, numbing him from the neck down. John. Sweet God, John.

"JOHN!" he screamed once more, finding a voice that was desperate and broken, filled with sheer despair.

The ex-army doctor turned back to mouth "Sorry!" before he plunged, without hesitation, into the burning building. Sherlock's body moved forward of its own accord, but he was held fast by Lestrade's steely grip on his coat.

"Sherlock, no!" The DI yelled, holding him tight.

Ten and one-half seconds later, by Sherlock's count, two small children emerged, coughing and blackened with soot, running shakily, to be scooped up by waiting officers. A huge burst of flame and smoke erupted through hole where the roof should have been, spilling even more heat and fire into the street.

Sherlock's eyes widened in horror as a silhouette became outlined at the entrance. Short, stocky, jeans and jumper. "John! John! Let me go, Lestrade! John! I have to-Let me-" Sherlock rambled, fighting against the DI's death grip, but Lestrade was stronger than he looked. "John! I need-"

Time slowed to a crawl and he watched with unrelenting dread as everything shifted. There was a loud rumble and a groan, and the whole of the building exploded, sending a thunderous shockwave of fire, smoke, ash, and debris across the street.

The blast sent the DI and the consulting detective to the pavement with Sherlock's horrified scream of "NO!" echoing over everything. And then it all went black.

"John!" Sherlock gasped as he jerked awake amid a tangle of rumpled and sweaty sheets.

He wiped a shaking hand over his face and looked at the bedside clock. Two-thirty in the afternoon. Three months, two days, one hour, twelve minutes and forty-seven seconds since John Watson died. It felt like yesterday.

He got up, put on his dressing gown and sat at the edge of the bed when he realized his feet would not carry him out the bedroom door. Sherlock's ears craned for any sign of sound in the flat, as he did whenever he woke from the nightmare, listening, hoping, praying to hear the soft rustle of John reading the paper, the clatter of John making tea, the huff of John cursing under his breath at the discovery of another gruesome experiment. Nothing. Silence. He threw himself back on the bed and sobbed.

He lay there for a long while, knees pulled tight to his chest, body winding down from convulsive gasps to quiet tremors as he cried himself out. When he finally stilled, the pillowcase was saturated with a cold, salty wetness.

Downstairs, he heard a soft knock and the creak of the flat door opening. "Sherlock, dear, are you decent?"

He sniffed and sat up, wiping away the last traces of tears with the back of his hand. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I'll be right down," he called.

"Take your time, love. I'll put the kettle on."

He stood and retied his dressing gown, Mrs. Hudson's gentle grumbles about the state of the kitchen reaching his ears.

The effort to walk to the kitchen was Herculean, and it occurred to him he had only made this trip a handful of times since John had been gone. Eating was no longer a priority. He could imagine John's vexation if he knew about his lack of caloric intake. Nothing mattered anymore. Eating, sleeping, dressing, working cases. Breathing. None of it meant anything anymore. The brain didn't matter. Transport didn't matter. Without John, the brain no longer needed to function. Because when it did, all the blasted thing could conjure were images of John's lovely face, the sound of his voice, the feel of him in the flat. The organ that supplied him with life now only reminded him of death. A betrayal at its most basic level. Just like John's death.

Mrs. Hudson had cleared off the kitchen table and set tea service for two. She was as bright and bushy as always, and in that moment, Sherlock envied her. His ability to catalogue and store information, process and understand it, had vanished with the explosion. He couldn't get it to make sense, no matter how hard he tried to piece it together. And yet, here was Mrs. Hudson, whom he had seen grieve deeply at John's loss, puttering around the kitchen with a smile and a hum. It was almost insulting.

Had it been anyone else, he most assuredly would have acted like a complete and utter arse, yelling and screaming, threatening and ranting, hurling insults like snowballs, determined to rid himself of anyone who dared to intrude on his exile. But her smile and gentle ways were a beacon, a demonstration of motherly love innate to her person. And Sherlock couldn't fault her, knowing she had been here in the flat, those few years ago, making tea and quiet conversation with John, when John thought it was Sherlock who was lost. For that, he felt a deep and abiding sense of affection for the little woman, knowing she cared so deeply for his John. It was because of John he knew that was something to be praised. And cherished.

"Oh, Sherlock," she tutted. "Just look at the state of you. Sit before you fall down, dear. I'll pour you a cuppa."

"Thank you," he said softly as he sat.

She poured his tea in silence, then sat down next to him at the table.

"When did you eat last, Sherlock? You look positively frightful. Eat a biscuit." She shoved a plate in front of him. "Eat, dear."

"Not hungry."

"Bollocks," she chided. "What would John say if he could see you like this?"

"He would call me an idiot and then order take-away."

"Well, he would be right," she huffed. "You've stopped taking care of yourself altogether. That's a bit not good, Sherlock. Bit not good."

He closed his eyes and sighed. "What does it matter, Mrs. Hudson? He's not here." Sherlock's voice broke. "He won't ever be here again."

"Yes, but that's no reason to not go on living, dear."

"Platitudes, Mrs. Hudson?"

"If you like," she smiled. "Sometimes that's all we have."

Sherlock stared at her face over the rim of the cup. Her eyes held no judgment, no guile, and most importantly, no pity. Caring to the last.

"I'm sorry," he said roughly, putting the cup down. "I don't mean to be rude."

"Nonsense," she shrugged, patting his hand. "You've been far worse on occasion." She smiled brightly. "And a little crankiness is to be expected. Losing someone you love is hard, no matter the circumstance."

"Yes, I suppose-" he stopped. "Wait, what did you say?" Sherlock perked up, blinking rapidly.

"I said you've been far worse-"

"No, the end. About-about love?"

The question hung in the air for a moment as they looked at one another. Her eyes widened and she patted his hand again. "You poor thing. Hadn't even realized it, had you? You smart ones, you never see what's right in front of you." This time she squeezed his hand. "You loved him, Sherlock. Still do, for that matter."

Sherlock kept blinking but couldn't get his eyes to focus. "I don't-I don't understand."

"It's not surprising, dear. The waters of the heart are not easy to navigate." She huffed again. "Would you listen to me? I sound like a bit of bad telly." She paused, taking a sip of her tea. "He loved you too, you know. Loved you to distraction." She frowned. "I'm surprised he didn't tell you. Frankly, I thought you had it all sorted, the way you two have been acting since…well, since you came home."

Came home. Mrs. Hudson had never spoke about his pseudo-death in detail. She always made it sound breezy and effortless, as if he had just gone on holiday. As if his return was inevitable.

"It nearly killed him, Sherlock. Thinking you were gone for good. It was hard on us all. But, I'm sure you talked about it."

Sherlock's mind ticked back in time, rifling through every memory he could latch onto. Had they talked about it? Really talked about it? No. The revelation was staggering. He remembered yelling. Yes, John had most certainly yelled. Punches were thrown. Sherlock had apologized and really meant it, they had a hug and that was the end of it.

He realized that over the bluster of his reaction at Sherlock's reappearance, he never knew how John felt about it, deep down. They had both treated it as if it never happened, settling back into routine almost instantly. But how had John really felt? And why hadn't he told him?

The haze was slowly lifting, like London fog rolling through, it was beginning to dissipate, leaving clues shining in the blazing morning sun. Things had changed between them; he just hadn't seen it. Idiot! The pieces began falling together, finishing the puzzle image in his mind. They had both been more attentive, always keeping sight of one another. More texting when they were apart. Even if it was just down to the shops for more milk or tea, invariably there was conversation by text until the missing party had returned home.

There was less complaining about experiments gone awry, acceptance of gory things found around the flat. And touching. There was definitely more touching. Little gestures. A hand on the shoulder, the brush of a leg or arm in back of cabs, a press at the small of the back as they passed through doors. The fierce embrace after John had clocked him twice when he returned from the dead. Yes, they had both held on. He remembered that vividly. That was information not to be deleted. It was always on his mind, though at the time, he hadn't known what to make of it.

And now, the information was useless. Sherlock's heart sank. There was so much to tell, so much to say, and-"

"Sherlock? Are you alright, dear?"

Tears began to pool in his eyes and his throat clenched. No, he was definitely not alright. Would never be again, now that he understood. Something inside him broke.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, I-" he hiccupped, hanging his head. The dark curls shook softly as he cried, "There's so much I want to say. So many things I need to tell him."

She reached out and clasped his hands, her touch warm and gentle. He did not pull back, because he thought if he did, everything would break apart and fall away and he would be lost forever. Lost. Forever. Without John.

"Then tell him," she said, snapping him back to the present. "Talk to him. Tell him everything. It'll do you good." She gave his hands one last squeeze and let go, rising from the table. "I'll leave you to it, then. The two of you have lots to talk over." She shuffled to the door and spoke over her shoulder. "And Sherlock, you could do with a little tidying up around here. Not your housekeeper, dear." And she was gone.

Electricity zipped through him as if he had been rewired and brought back to life, like Frankenstein's monster, and he got up and began pacing the flat, drinking in all the reminders of John scattered about. Had John done this? Talked to him while he was gone? What secrets did he reveal? How much of his heart had the doctor lay bare?

The questions whizzed about in his brain as he went over the flat, the need to know, to touch, to feel John's things, lighting a fire low in his belly. He needed to get inside, work open the closed doors of John's mind and soul, wanting to know every dark corner John had kept hidden. Force his way into those locked spaces and bring everything that was shadowed between them into the glorious light of day. John was the mystery to be solved and the science of deduction was the tool to complete understanding. If there were no answers in life, then in death he would find the truth.


	2. A Study in Loss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sherlock is about to lose his shit. You are warned. Reference to drug use and some pretty intense masturbation. Turn back now if not your taste.

Sherlock's heart beat rapidly, the fierce pounding creating an unusual sensation within his chest. He placed a hand over his heart for further consideration. Curious. He sat on the sofa and looked out into the sitting room, surveying the territory with his critical eye. There were clues here. Clues. Small items, inconsequential to anyone else, but to Sherlock they were portents to understanding. His foot began to tap, the vibration moving into his leg and knee, then to the rest of his body. The leg moved faster and faster as his eyes searched and his mind reeled. Clues. What did I not see? He stood up sharply with a resounding sniff and paced again.

Two quick rounds around the room and then his eyes fell on John's chair. He flung himself into it, throwing his head back, sinking down into the cushions.

"Did you sit here?" His voice was a husky whisper. "Did you wonder why I left you?" He sighed. "Did it hurt," he placed his palm over the thundering beneath his ribcage, "here?" A shaky breath. "How did you stand it? The ache, John. It's unbearable." He turned his head and his cheek brushed across rough fabric. Startled, he sat up and reached for the offending texture. John's black jacket. The one he shrugged off at Sherlock's feet. It was all that was left of John from that fateful day, and he hadn't even noticed it. His mouth pulled into a tight line. Lestrade must have left here after all John's arrangements had been made.

He pulled the garment into his lap, running his fingers over the seams, gingerly scraping his nails into the fabric. John. Everything of John was there in the lines of the jacket, hard seams and soft texture, a dichotomy that was unique to John alone. The doctor, with the hard lines of a face that could tell dangerous tales, the softness of eyes which always seemed to understand and forgive, the corded wall of muscle he knew was contained beneath the dulcet feel of an ordinary jumper. That was John.

Sherlock buried his face in the jacket, breathing in the scent of John, still there after these long months, as if the spicy scent lingered only long enough for Sherlock to find. The fragrance filled his nostrils, coated the back of his tongue, casting tendrils of memory into the air, like plumes of perfumed smoke weaving their sorrowful threads into Sherlock's brain. He groaned loudly, sinking back into the chair, clutching the jacket like a lifeline.

His heart thumped faster as the scent of John surrounded him in a blanket of anguish, spurred on by strange feelings beginning to twitch low in his loins. He gasped as the sensation sparked and grew hot, fevered, spiraling downward, taking hold of his body and clamping down in desire. The feeling was odd, alien to him, one only remembered vaguely from failed experimentation at uni, when he decided that pleasures of the flesh were not worth the distraction.

"Oh, John," he whispered. "Did you ever feel like this?" Another gasp as he felt himself harden, his erection surging beneath the waistband of his pajama pants. He tentatively reached down and wrapped a hand around his cock, sucking in a rough breath at the burst of pleasure. "Is it possible you wanted me like this?" He cried out as his hand tightened. "John!"

Suddenly, the need overwhelmed him, driving him by instinct into John's bedroom, flinging open the door and sending it rattling on its hinges. The jacket dropped to the floor as he stumbled inside, shaky and bleary-eyed with want. John's room had been left untouched, the bed still made in tight military corners, not a thing out of place. He stepped over the threshold, staggering to the dresser and began ripping open drawers like a madman, sending items flying into the air until he found what he wanted. The jumpers. All of them, folded neatly in one drawer, were thrown onto the bed in a giant woolen heap.

Sherlock's dressing gown fell to the floor in a dark blue swish, followed immediately by his t-shirt and pants. He dove bodily onto the bed, tangling his long limbs into the pile, whimpering and mewling at the scratch of fabric on his naked skin. He was surrounded by John, the scent of him bathing his body in a soft caress. He bucked against the mattress, gathering as much jumper as he could into his arms, pressing his erection into the sheets and delighting at the harsh rasp.

This was the John he wanted, the hard and soft, the John that had him naked and writhing, begging for something he didn't know he needed. He rolled on the bed, curling one hand around himself, stroking with a heartbreaking intensity, while the other hooked greedily into cable-knit wool. His eyes slammed shut and he bit down on his lower lip, drawing blood, oblivious to the sting. A hoarse groan rumbled from the back of his throat and he moved harder against his hand, the chafing pull creating a fiery flush on his skin. He could not stop now, not if the world collapsed around him. John was everywhere and nowhere and the ache became a void, black and cruel, the sharp stings of ecstasy in direct opposition to his despair. An unholy union of pleasure and pain ripped through him with a frenzied vengeance as he thrust, thrashing his head from side to side, burying himself deeper into the mound of fabric, moaning John's name over and over.

Want and need sparred with absolute grief, fighting to fill the ever-widening void the doctor had left behind. "Please," he panted, desperately trying to hold on. It was too much, yet not enough and as Sherlock gasped out a soul-shattering release, his sound of triumph echoed in the room. "I LOVE YOU!"

When the last tremors left his body, Sherlock sighed and opened his eyes. The heat from his skin had dissipated and a chill ran down his spine as his eyes widened in shock. Dear God, what have I done? He swallowed as panic set in. He cast a glance down at himself, sticky with the evidence of his actions, the arms of numerous jumpers tangled around him like a lover. Oh, God, John. How could I have done this?

A voice, shrill and slurred, cut in.

"This is your fault! It's your fault he's dead! This is all your fault! I curse the day he ever set eyes on you, Sherlock Holmes!"

He shivered as Harry's rant had picked up speed, even as she tottered with the effort to stay upright. She thrust an accusing finger in his face.

"You never cared about him! About what this was doing to him! And now he's gone off and gotten himself killed! He never would have done anything like this if it weren't for you! It should be you! They should have picked up pieces of you all over London! Not my brother! Not John, you sorry son of a bitch!"

She had stumbled then, falling into his arms.

"Get off me!" she screeched, pushing and shoving until she regained her ground, hate rolling off her in waves, the anger glowing like embers in her blurry eyes.

"You are the worst human being to ever walk God's green earth. You didn't deserve him, Sherlock! He was too good for the likes of you! And you ruined him. You ruined him."

He choked back a sob, tears leaking from the corner of his eyes. He sat up in horror, staring at his hands. What had he done to John? And here he was now, in John's bed, amid John's things, disgracing them both with unspeakable carnal acts to appease his own guilt. Harry was right. He was a son of a bitch. And he didn't deserve him.

Shame engulfed him as he jumped up from the bed and ripped off the sheets, piling the defiled mound of wool in the middle. He threw the makeshift sack into the corner and ran to the bathroom, turning on the shower and leaping in, the cold spray stinging his skin. Blindly, he grabbed for the soap and the sponge and began to scrub in earnest, desperate to peel away the layers of guilt and filth that coated him.

The tears came full force, shaking his body in half-croaked grunts as he scoured every inch of flesh, stripping it raw, as if erasing the traces from his body would somehow remove it from his mind. He dropped the sponge and placed his palms flat against tile, resting his forehead against the wall. He drew a deep breath, sucking the air into his lungs, feeling the burn down to his toes. Finally, he calmed, the in and out of his chest falling into a steady rhythm.

Without warning, the mist brought a delicate scent wafting through the shower and the even breaths ceased, clogging in his throat. John. John's soap. He groaned. There was no escaping him.

He turned off the tap and darted out of the bathroom, retrieving his gown from John's room and shoved it on, running as if the devil himself were on his heels. He ended up back in the sitting room and suddenly all the vestiges of John left in the flat were closing in on him with terrifying swiftness. The newspaper he read on the coffee table, the laptop, John's cane, left behind so long ago, still propped in one corner. His RAMC mug. His doctor's satchel.

Sherlock's hands flew to his hair, fingers digging into his scalp, clawing at it, as he closed his eyes and moaned.

"No, no, no, no….." He chanted as he shook his head, trying to drive the memories out of his mind. He was everywhere. There was no part of the flat that did not have John's touch all over it. How had he not seen it before? Now they haunted him, these things of John's, and their mocking laughter echoing in his head. He had to quiet them. He couldn't think straight over the pounding in his chest and the bedlam in his brain.

He sniffed loudly, straightening. The Mind Palace. He had to block the stimulus. Had to restore order. His eyes shut and he outstretched his hands and entered. The mocking laugh followed him, high and hysterical, and he could not outrun it, trying each door only to find locked rooms inaccessible to him. He screamed in frustration, unable to break through, and down each winding and twisting corridor he found John's face staring back at him. The laughter grew louder, pouring from John's open mouth and suddenly John's eyes narrowed as he roared at Sherlock.

"YOU DIDN'T DESERVE ME!"

Sherlock sank to the floor, howling in pain and terror, clawing his way on all fours to curl into a ball of blue silk on the sofa, pressing the Union Jack pillow over his ears, rocking back and forth, begging for it to stop.

The maddening sounds drove him to the brink, leaving Sherlock to reach out for the only thing that had ever been able to soothe the riot in his head. He grabbed for the phone on the table and typed.

I NEED IT. - SH

45 MIN. THE USUAL.

BRING IT. - SH

He tossed the phone aside and with an odd focus, made it downstairs to place a discreet fold of pound notes under the mat, returned, continuing to rock and wait until he heard the hinge on the mail slot downstairs. He was down and back in a flash, the needle in his arm before he sank onto the sofa. He groaned at the rush and leaned back, waiting to fall into oblivion. It took two more injections before he found it.

Sherlock blinked awake, hours later, just as the sun was beginning its descent. He jumped up from the sofa energized, a new rush of excitement flowing through him. It was quiet in his head, everything was clearer now, and the brain was working to its maximum capacity. Much better. Now the things that had mocked him only left him with questions. The mystery to be deduced. It was clearer now, yes, so very clear. He laughed at his idiocy. It was obvious, obvious, staring him in the face all along. The emotion, the sentiment, had clouded him, not allowing him to see what was so blatantly apparent. John was not dead. The laugh was almost a giggle. Yes, that was it. John Watson was not dead. The game was now, another giggle, on.

He tore up the flat for the better part of an hour, still coming up empty. He sat down with a huff, dressing gown rippling around his legs as his brain clicked in time with the rapid blink of his eyes. Yes, there was still something missing. A clue gone unnoticed.

Think, Sherlock. Think.

He scanned the room for the thousandth time before finally coming to rest on the floor at the edge of the coffee table. John's trainers. Yes.

He scooped them up and sprinted to the kitchen, clearing the table with one sweep of his arm, sending everything on it crashing to the floor. Within seconds, he was armed with tweezers, petri dishes, and a microscope. Two hours later, he had pieced together three things from the soles of John's shoes.

Hand-dyed Persian wool, four distinct types of tobacco ash, and tea cake crumbs.

Thirty-two seconds after that, he bounded out of the flat, still in his dressing gown, and hailed a cab, murderous rage boiling in his eyes.

Twenty-seven minutes and forty-three seconds later, Sherlock knew because he counted, two uniformed butlers dragged Sherlock bodily, kicking and flailing, white-gloved hands muffling the sound of his shouts, and deposited him at the feet of Mycroft Holmes.

The elder Holmes merely folded back a corner of his newspaper and peered down.

"Evening, Sherlock."

"Where. Is. John?"

"Same place, the last time I looked."

The paper was ripped from his hands and Mycroft gave a soft snort. He flicked a quick glance over his brother.

"Sherlock, are you high?"

"As a kite, Mycroft. Now, I am asking you again. Where. Is. John?"

"Sherlock-" Mycroft's eyes went wide as Sherlock grabbed him, fists bunching in his lapels, bringing him face to face with the consulting detective.

"TELL ME WHERE HE IS!"

With a brusqueness of which Sherlock was not previously aware, Mycroft's hands came up to shove Sherlock away, sending him halfway across the room.

"Get a hold of yourself!" he snapped. "Look at you! Go home and sleep it off and we will pretend this," he paused, "unpleasantness ever happened."

"Mycroft-"

"NOW, SHERLOCK!" he bellowed, making Sherlock flinch. He calmed, straightening his coat.

Sherlock blinked and sniffed, little twitches shivering over him. "I know you're lying, Mycroft. I know-"

A coldness settled into Mycroft's eyes. "Go home, Sherlock."

Sherlock waited a moment, tapping his foot, then turned and stormed out, slamming the door with a loud bang.

Mycroft watched him go with a raised eyebrow and pulled his phone from his coat, dialing. "Yes, my brother has just left the building. See that he makes it home without incident." He ended the call and put the phone down, sitting back, the calm demeanor slipping. After a moment, he picked up his mobile again and began to type.

WE HAVE A PROBLEM. - MH

I TOLD YOU.

SO IT WOULD SEEM. WHERE ARE WE? - MH

JUST EMAILED MY REPORT. YOU SHOULD HAVE IT MOMENTARILY.

Seconds later, another butler entered and handed Mycroft a brown folder. He perused its contents and returned to the phone.

DID ANYONE EVER TELL YOU THAT YOU HAVE IMPECCABLE TIMING? - MH

DID ANYONE EVER TELL YOU YOURS IS CRAP?

LET'S BE GENTLEMEN, SHALL WE? - MH

YOU'RE A BASTARD. I TOLD YOU THIS WOULD HAPPEN.

IRRELEVANT AT THE TIME. TRANSPORT WILL BE ARRANGED FOR TOMORROW - MH

IT BETTER BE FIRST CLASS. TOSSER.

OF COURSE. - MH

Mycroft sighed and tucked the phone away, frowning at the tremble in his hand. Past time for this to be over. Long past time.


	3. A Study in Loss

THREE DAYS LATER

The door to the flat creaking open woke Sherlock from a much-needed slumber. He'd been running straight on heroin and nicotine since his run-in with Mycroft, finally collapsing from exhaustion on the sofa. Feeling slightly cranky at being disturbed, he called over his shoulder, "Not now, Mrs. Hudson. I'm not in the mood for a cuppa." Silence. She hadn't turned to leave, and he knew someone was still there. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention and something clicked in his head. Not Mrs. Hudson. He slowly turned toward the door.

"Hello, Sherlock."

He fell off the sofa and scrambled to stand as his blurry eyes focused to take in the figure in the doorway.

John Watson stood stiffly in his military fatigues, a camouflaged duffel clasped in his left hand. As Sherlock's breath caught in his throat, the duffel dropped to the floor with a thud.

"John?" He blinked furiously, suddenly afraid he was dreaming.

"It's not a dream, Sherlock. I'm home."

Instantly, Sherlock was across the room, face to face with the one person who had the innate ability to stop his brain from functioning. John, here. In the flesh. Tanned, beautiful flesh. John, not dead. The myriad of feelings he'd been trying so hard to sort out began to boil over. Fear, despair, love, lust, anger, rage. And John was calm. So very calm. So maddeningly, devastatingly calm. Sherlock snapped.

His right hand curled into a fist and began to sail through the air, aimed directly for the chiseled line of John's jaw as he growled, "You bastard."

John's eyes never left Sherlock's as his hand came up to effortlessly trap the punch before it landed. He squeezed Sherlock's fist and said in a low, rough voice, "No."

Sherlock trembled with anger as he snatched his hand back, as if he'd been burned. "You're not dead, and you're going to deny me the pleasure of punching you in the face?" he said sharply.

John pursed his lips. "It looks that way."

"How did you expect me to react?"

"Like that."

"I'm angry, John." He was pleased at the touch of steel he managed to inject into his voice.

"I know."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Very angry."

"I don't doubt it."

"Are you going to explain?"

John smiled. "I thought you would have it figured out by now."

Sherlock lifted his chin. "I have several theories."

John's eyes darkened to twilight as he leaned close and Sherlock could feel the heat of his breath on his chest. "Tell me," he whispered.

Sherlock's mouth opened and his jaw worked back and forth, but nothing came out. He closed his eyes and lowered his head in defeat, words escaping him. There were no words. John was home and that was it. John's hot breath tickled his ear, sending a surge of desire rocketing south as the doctor whispered again, "Tell me."

He wanted nothing more than to move his head a fraction of an inch, to move closer to allow John's lips to brush his ear. He shivered, but did not move. The taunt was cruel, understanding exactly what John wanted, yet he was unable to comply. The anger, both at himself for his cowardice and at John for pushing him so very far, returned. He stepped back, sniffing and shaking his head.

"How could you do this?" he hissed. "How could you do this to me?" Sherlock flung himself around and headed to the sofa. John's words stopped him cold.

"I imagine the same way you did it to me." John's voice was flat with a dead calm.

Sherlock threw his arms in the air turned to glance at John. "Is that was this was? Revenge, John?" he scoffed. "All of this to get back at me for something that happened years ago? Ordinary people hold grudges, John. God, you must be their king!" Sherlock was pacing the flat now, dressing gown fluttering around him. "Do you know how difficult that was? Do you know how hard it was for me? Do you know how much I wanted-"

"Really? Because you never said-"

"Of course I didn't say anything!" he yelled. "I thought you knew! I thought-"

"How could I possibly know, Sherlock? You just showed up after three years without so much as a by your leave, popping back into my life, a life I was trying like hell to get on with, with your 'Hello, John, how about some coffee? BLACK WITH TWO FUCKING SUGARS!'" John bellowed. "It was like nothing ever happened! I thought you had died, Sherlock! And it never occurred to you that I might have some feelings about that?"

Sherlock stopped and stared at him. John's fists were curled at his side, teeth clenched in the hard set of his jaw, eyes flaming, and body rocking under the strain. The doctor shook as he continued. "And this," he snarled, "This is not about you!"

"Isn't it?" Sherlock shot back. "Isn't this all about me? Making me," he ground out the word, "feel like this?" He pounded a fist against his chest. "It was killing me, John! Killing me!" He roared.

"You arrogant prat!" John yelled. "Three goddamn years I had to relive losing you! I died that day! And when you came back, you never bothered to say anything, anything Sherlock, that would lead me to believe you were sorry! And yes, maybe some small part of me was delighted to be able to stick it to you, but believe me when I say leaving you hurt me, Sherlock. Hurt me deeply. More than I thought it would."

"You want me to be sorry?" he asked incredulously. "All you had to-"

"Yes!" John cried, "Yes, I want you to be sorry! I want you to be sad!" He started moving forward, "I want you to hurt! I want you to question! I want you to miss me!" He stopped in front of Sherlock, hands curling into the dressing gown, pulling Sherlock to eye level. The last words were a gritted whisper. "I want you to tell me."

Sherlock stared into John's eyes and the rage melted, the burn of anger slowing to a crawl, morphing instead into a creeping sizzle that flushed his skin. The time for anger was over. Resentment had no place here. They now stood on equal ground, each showing their hand, but neither able to articulate. Everything had shifted in one fell swoop, in that last breath of John's, and all the scattered feelings that had orbited around them for years finally fell to earth, sliding together with the easy grace of a key and lock. John was right. This wasn't about him. This had always been about John. About what he needed and what Sherlock had denied. Now, he wanted nothing else between them.

He reached up and cupped John's face in his hands, ghosting his lips across John's, and whispered, "I love you."

John growled deep in his throat and pressed hungry lips to Sherlock's. The taste, the feel of John's mouth moving on his, erased everything from his mind except the pleasure. John's lips rubbed and teased, tongue stroking and searching, and they clung together on a sigh, wrapping needy arms around one another, refusing to let go.

With hurried stumbling, they collapsed on the sofa in a heap of seeking hands and throaty moans. Finally, after many long, fevered kisses, they came up for air and John pulled Sherlock's head down to rest on his chest. He was pleased to hear the hammer of John's heart against his ribcage, the rapid thumping a sweet cadence to his ears. John's fingers trailed in his hair and he sighed in contentment, pressing against John's hands like a cat seeking attention.

He felt John drop a kiss on his head. "I love you too, Sherlock."

Sherlock sat up suddenly, eyes searching John's. "Where were you? And what were you doing for Mycroft?"

John sighed and tucked him back down again, releasing a long, steadying breath. "I made it out of the building, just barely mind you, out the back. There was a car waiting in the back alley and I was whisked away, as your brother is prone to kidnapping."

Sherlock wrapped an arm around John's waist and snuggled closer. "If he does that again, I swear I will spike his tea cakes with laxatives."

John chucked and pressed another kiss in Sherlock's hair and continued. "Turns out the terrorists that attacked the school were getting information from someone within the Doctors Without Borders camp, so it was decided, without my consent of course, that I should be the one to infiltrate and sniff out the culprit. So, that's what I did. 'For Queen and country', is how it was explained to me. But, on the caveat that he would never ask me to deceive you like that again. I was surprised, frankly, when he agreed."

"If you ever go away again, I swear to God I will follow you to Hell and find you. You cannot leave me."

"You'll have to leave the coat behind, I'm afraid. Cheekbones and mystery won't hold sway in the fiery depths." John smirked.

"Point taken. However, I have it on good authority that I look rather fetching in Bermuda shorts." Sherlock smiled. "But, Satan or no, I don't do flip-flops."

"Noted."

Sherlock sighed. "So what do we do now?" The fingers weaving though his hair were making him light-headed.

"Holiday?" John offered. "I could use a bit of a rest."

"On Mycroft's quid?"

"Of course."

"Excellent," Sherlock murmured. "Where?"

"Greece?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Greece? Why Greece?"

"I suddenly have an overwhelming inclination to see you on a sun-drenched beach in nothing but a pair of Bermuda shorts."

"Flattery will get you everywhere." The fingers tightened against his scalp and he gasped.

"Do shut up, Sherlock. And get upstairs."

Sherlock sat up and leaned into John's face, preparing for another kiss. "What for?"

The devious smile that slid across the doctor's face sent a jolt of electricity straight to Sherlock's groin. "Because I plan on having you in every way imaginable that will render you incapable of saying anything but my name for the next several hours." John caught Sherlock's lips in his own.

"Oh, John," he sighed.

"Starting already?" he murmured against Sherlock's lips, smiling. "I think I'm going to like this."

ONE WEEK LATER:

Mycroft Holmes barely contained the squeak of displeasure as he perused his bank balance. Greece? He sighed and shook his head as his mobile buzzed within his jacket. He pulled it out and checked the screen, his vision suddenly filled with a shot of John basking happily on a stretch of white sand beach. His eyes moved to the caption.

THANKS FOR THE HOLIDAY. TAKE HIM AWAY FROM ME AGAIN AND I WILL DO EVERYTHING IN MY POWER TO ENSURE YOU NEVER HAVE ANOTHER MOMENT OF PEACE. I BELIEVE YOU KNOW I AM CAPABLE. CHEERS. - SH

Mycroft barked out a short laugh and replaced his phone, smiling. Past time for that to be over. Long past time.


End file.
